Fidelias settled back with his tea, frowning, but unable to voice any particular protest against the ritual. As she washed his feet, people began to trickle into the hall by threes and fours and fives; families, mostly, he noted. The steadholt was a prosperous one. Though the seats around the fire were given a respectful space, the rest of the large hall was soon filled with motion and sound and quietly festive talk — the mark of a folk who knew that they were safe, while outside the thunder rolled, the wind was rising, and the storm chimes were clanging away in steady rhythm.
Isana finished and said, “I’ll just have these brushed clean, sir, and send them right back to you.” She rose, taking his boots in hand. “I’m afraid we can offer only clean blankets and a place beside the fire this night. We’ll have our dinner together and then turn in for the night.”
Fidelias glanced at the stairs and then back to the watercrafter. Simple enough, then. Once everyone was sleeping, even the suspicious watercrafter, it would be an easy enough matter to slit three throats in the darkness and slip away before morning light. “Everyone together at dinner.” He smiled at her and said, “That sounds per —”
The doors to the hall abruptly slammed open, and Aldrick stormed in, letting in the howling wind. Rain and sleet pounded down around his broad shoulders and across the threshold with him. Odiana clung to his side. Both looked disheveled, straw littering their hair and clothing. Aldrick cut through the crowded hall and came straight to Fidelias, the holders scattering out of his way, like sheep before a running horse.
“Fidelias,” Aldrick breathed, keeping his voice low. “Someone has let our horses out. They know.”
Fidelias let out a curse and looked toward the watercrafter — only to see her holding her skirts with one hand while she dashed up the far staircase, his boots in her other.
“Bloody crows,” he breathed, rising, feet cold upon the floor. “I’ll get the horses and the Steadholder. The boy and Amara are up those stairs.” He turned to Aldrick, feeling for the knife hidden in his tunic, and said, “Kill them.”
CHAPTER 18
Tavi eventually came to the conclusion that he was sulking.
It wasn’t easily reached, of course. It took nearly ten minutes of staring at the wall in smoldering anger after his aunt’s departure before it occurred to Tavi that she did not look at all well. That, in turn, led to worrying about her, and after that it became impossible to sustain a good, sullen rage. The anger slowly faded and left him feeling tired, sore, and hungry.
Tavi sat up on his bed and swung his legs over the side. He kicked his feet, frowning, while he thought about the events of the past day, and what they meant to him.
He had neglected his responsibilities and told a lie. And now he suffered for it—and so did the people who cared about him. His uncle had been wounded badly in his defense, and now Aunt Isana looked as though the efforts of healing his uncle’s leg had damaged her health. Such things were not unheard of. And even though Bernard tried to hide it, his uncle walked with a very slight limp. It was just possible that he would keep it, that the injury had done permanent damage to his leg.
Tavi rested his chin in his hands and closed his eyes, feeling foolish, selfish, childish. He had been so focused on getting the sheep—his sheep — back, on keeping his uncle’s respect, that he had forgotten to behave in a manner that was worthy of it. He had exposed himself and others to great risk, all for the sake of his dream — the Academy.
If he had gotten to the Academy as a result of his ill-considered choices, would it have been worth it? Could he really have made a better life for himself, knowing what he had traded away to get it?
“You are an idiot, Tavi,” he mumbled to himself. “A true, shining example of idiocy.”
Matters could be much worse for him—much worse for his family, as well. He shuddered at the thought of his uncle, dead on the ground, or his aunt laying beside a healing tub with her eyes empty, her body still breathing but already dead. Though things had not played out the way he had wished them to, they could have been more disastrous.
Though he ached in every muscle and his head felt light and feverish, he went to the door. He would find his aunt and uncle, apologize to them, and offer to make amends. He had no idea what he would do, but he knew that he had to at least try. They deserved that much.
He had to earn the respect he wanted, not through daring or cleverness, but simply through hard work and reliability, just as his uncle and aunt had.
Tavi was about to open the door when there came a swift, soft rapping at his window.
He blinked, looking back across the dimness of his room. Outside, the wind was rising, and he had already put up the storm shutters. Perhaps one of the more mischievous wind furies had rattled the shutters.
The knock came again. Three quick knocks, two slow, three quick, two slow.
Tavi went to the window and unfastened the latch to the storm shutters.
They sprang open, all but knocking him down, and let in a torrent of cold, misty wind. Tavi drew back several steps, as someone slipped into the room, lithe and nearly silent.
Amara made a soft, quiet sound and slipped entirely into the room, then turned and shut the window and the shutters behind her. She was wearing what looked like a pair of his uncle’s trousers, belted about her slender waist with a heavy leather cord. His tunic and shirt billowed on her, as did the heavily padded jacket and cloak, but she had secured them with more strips of leather, so that she was quite evidently functional in them. She wore pale slippers on her feet and what looked like several layers of socks under them. In one hand, she held a bundle that included an old leather pack of Bernard’s, his hunting bow, a handful of arrows, and the sword they’d recovered from the Princeps’ Memorium.
“Tavi,” she said. “Get dressed in warm clothes. Bring extra socks, some blankets, food if you have any up here. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Tavi stammered.
“Keep your voice down,” the slave hissed.
Tavi blinked and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”
“We can’t leave,” Tavi protested. “The storm’s coming in.”
“It won’t be as bad as the last one,” Amara said. “And we can take more salt with us. You have a smokehouse here, yes? Salt for the meat?”
“Of course, but—”
Amara crossed to his trunks, swung the first open, and started digging.
“Hey!” Tavi protested.
She threw a pair of heavy trousers into his face, followed by three of his thickest shirts. She followed that with his jacket from its peg on the wall and then his second-best cloak.
“Get those on,” Amara said.
“No,” Tavi said, firmly. “I’m not leaving. I just got back. People got hurt trying to come and find me. I’m not going to make them go through that again. You can’t expect me to put the people of my own steadholt in danger so that I can go running off with a fugitive slave!”
Amara went to the door and checked the latch, making sure it was shut. “Tavi, we don’t have time. If you want to live, come with me. Right now.”
Tavi blinked at her, so startled that he dropped the clothes he had been holding. “Wh-what?”
“If you don’t leave with me, right now, you aren’t going to live through the night.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Get dressed,” she said.